Mine
by Slightly Sinister Sinestra
Summary: Ratigan isn't dead, but he's been out of action long enough for a new crimelord to rise in London, and guess who's on the trail of this new threat? Now Ratigan is out to get back all he lost. Everything, and everyone. Enjoy.
1. Prologue: Survival

Okay. This is my first attempt at a Basil of Baker Street fic, so be gentle. Ratigan isn't dead, but his two month absence has left a vacuum of power that someone had to fill. So London has a new crimelord. Guess who's on his tail? Prologue is Ratigan's survival.

Disclaimer: It's not mine. Except the plot, and that only barely. Enjoy.

Prologue: Survival

The dogs that lived along the banks of the Thames were feral beasts, scavengers, carrion-eaters. What they found, they ate. It was that simple. Anything and everything, all the edible flotsam of the river ended up in there bellies. A rat, alive or dead, was just another meal to them.

But sometimes the meal proved too much, even for these killers. As one old bulldog discovered, some rats, half-dead or not, simply do not lie down to be eaten. The dog's henceforth eyeless condition testified to that. Ratigan was _not_ _happy_.

He'd had Basil beaten! Save for pure chance and dumb luck, the infernal detective would be dead! And yet somehow the insufferable bastard survived, despite all his efforts!

Of course, the same could be said of himself. It was only chance that scaffolding for restoration lower down the tower had broken his fall. It was only luck that the building waste he'd fallen into had gone into the river, and not an incinerator. He was alive, but only by the same kind of perversion of fate that sustained his nemesis. Yet, somehow, he wasn't the least bit surprised. He hadn't won, but neither had the detective. Their continuing contest of wit and mettle had always been marked by such half-victories and twists of fate. And it would continue. Oh yes. He'd see to that.

But first, he had things to do. An underworld to terrorise, a criminal empire to rebuild, fiendish schemes to concoct that would shake the empire to its core once again, and, of course, some properly tailored clothes to procure. A criminal mastermind must always look his best while plotting the overthrow of queen and country, and the demise of an arch-nemesis.

He stood on the banks of London's river. His river. His city lay before him, his territory to retake, and rebuild once more in his image. The name Ratigan would echo in the hushed bars and dens of underground London once again. What was his, stayed his, to the end.

Ratigan was back.

Well? This is just the prologue. The other chapters will be a bit longer. So what do you think? R&R?


	2. Chapter 1: New Enemies

I know this is a little fast, but I had the first couple of chapters done already. So here's chapter one. Have fun!

Chapter 1: New Enemies

Gesturing excitedly with his pipe, Basil paced his drawingroom floor. Dawson stood by the fireplace, and Ms. Pertwee sat demurely in one of his armchairs, both listening attentively. Every so often, she would cross and uncross her legs, a nervous habit that Dawson seemed to find rather distracting. Basil filed that away for future reference, smiling secretly, before turning his considerable mental faculties to the matter at hand.

Since Ratigan's fall two months beforehand, the London underworld had been severly unsettled, to say the least, as various factions struggled to fill the vacuum of power. Out of the chaos, one group had risen to lord it over the rest. Their leader was a vicious young mouse, one Crustworth by name, with a penchant for kidnapping young socialites with a view towards charging ransom. Unfortunately, he also had a penchant for killing them once the money was in hand. Which was why Ms. Pertwee had come to him in the hopes of finding and rescuing her captured sister before the madmouse murdered her.

He'd spent the last two weeks in persuit of a trail that would lead him to the new crimelord. In some ways, it had been horribly easy. There had been none of the mental twists and challenges that had characterised ... Ratigan's work. Perhaps he'd spent too long getting into the mind of that one person. But he was closing on the mouse. He knew it. The location of Crustworth's lair, and the imprisoned debutante, were almost clear to him. He had only to look anew at some old clue, rearrange the pieces of the puzzle in his mind, and it would come to him. Hence the pacing. It always helped.

His housekeeper had given up trying to discipline him, and had abandonned her attempts to replace his carpet. He paced his usual route, along the worn path that marked his previous mental struggles. Dawson, who'd grown used to his vagaries since he'd been staying here, had positioned himself out of the line of fire, so to speak. Unfortunately for both of them, Ms. Pertwee had no such experience. Her legs uncrossed again, drawing Dawson's attention yet again, and stuck out into his path.

His thoughts scattered to the winds as he flipped over her heels, to land in an undignified heap beside her chair. Lying bemused on the ground, his eyes blurred, the first thing he focused on was the stitching of her skirts, right before his face. Rough thread, that spoke of mending, and smooth stitching, that spoke of practice. Practice. Of course! Crustworth had practice. The mouse wasn't patient. He'd learned that, through his walks in the other's mind. So if he practised, it would be in the same area as the kidnappings. He'd be close. Close to them. Close to the girls. Uptown, but not upscale. Underground. Under ...

Galvanised, he leapt to his feet, almost falling over Dawson, who'd rushed to his aid. Unconcerned, he danced around his friend, leaping for his coat and cap. Dawson followed him, desperately trying to catch hold of his sleeve.

"What is it, Basil! What's wrong!" Dawson panted. Almost laughing with eagerness, Basil swung to him, gripping his shoulders.

"I've got him! By Jove, Dawson, I've got him! I know where he is! I know where to find him! He's mine!" Basil cried. He spun once more to leave, but this time the hand on his arm was feminine. He looked up at Ms. Pertwee.

"You're going after him? Now? But what about me? What if someone comes for me while you're gone? Please, don't leave me!" She looked slightly desperate. Basil faltered. She had a point. More to the point, he didn't know how to deal with women in trouble. He knew how to solve the problems, but he had no idea how to calm them in the interim. To be honest, he didn't know what to do. He wanted to go after Crustworth. It was what he did. But he couldn't leave her alone.

"Um ... Basil?" Dawson. Of course. Basil smiled.

"Of course! Dawson, old chap, would escort Ms. Pertwee to somewhere safe? I'll meet you at the location, in an hour's time. Alright? Capital!" He didn't bother to wait for an answer, already moving towards the door. Dawson grabbed hold of him again, and he turned impatiently. "What!"

"Basil," Dawson began patiently. "_Where_ am I to meet you?"

Oh. Right. He hadn't told them yet. "Miser Street. The grating under Miser Street. He's underground. He likes to watch them." And, finally, he made it out the door without being caught again.

The night was wet. Very wet. He skulked around the entrance to the underground, wondering what it was in the criminal mind that attracted them to deep places. Personally, he'd always prefered a little light and air. But not tonight. Tonight it was wet. He'd been waiting twenty minutes, and was soaked through.

Movement caught his eye. Two figures, creeping up to the grate. One hulking, large, the other smaller and fine-boned. The smaller moved with a dance in her step, a dance he recognised. Ms. Pertwee? What was she doing here? And where was Dawson? The other figure was too huge, too lopsided. It almost looked like it was in two parts, like a pair of mice standing on each other's shoulders. Or a big mouse carrying a body. Dawson!

He leapt forward, his only thought to ascertain that it was his friend, and retrieve him if it was. He gave no thought to the fact that if Ms. Pertwee were involved, they would know he was here. So he was unprepared for the blow to the back that knocked him flying, or the huge weight that flattened him to the ground a moment later. Dazed, he looked up into the leering face of a thug, one with little grasp of hygiene. His mind caught on to the terrible odor before it realised the danger it posed. He was captured.

He expected a cell, or an audience with the gang, as would have been Ratigan's way. But this wasn't Ratigan. This was Crustworth. So, _again_, he was caught unprepared when his captor threw him into a small room, and locked the door behind. A room containing one other occupant.

Raising himself onto his knees, Basil studied his foe. The confident manner and air of surpressed energy left him with no doubt. This was Crustworth. The criminal was young, no more than twenty, but he was scarred enough for a lifetime. A slice on his face twisted one side of his mouth up into a perpetual grimace. He held a pistol in one paw, as casually as another mouse would hold a book or a hat. And he was smiling at Basil, a strange, deranged smile that made the detective more than a bit nervous. The creature was obviously insane.

"Welcome, Mr. Basil," Crustworth laughed, and brought the pistol up to fire in one smooth move. The shot rang out, right at Basil.

Well? Sorry for the cliffie. Next chapter depends on it. R&R?


	3. Chapter 2: Crustworth

Sorry it's been ages since I updated. Still, better late than never, eh? Enjoy.

Chapter 2: Crustworth

Basil leapt at the report from Crustworth's pistol, scrambling desperately to the side. Fast enough to avoid instant death, but not safe. The burst of fire in his leg, the sudden weakness of the limb, told him that. His paw crumpled under him, pitching him forward to lie before the murderer, downed and helpless. With the young criminal looming over him, and Dawson locked up somewhere in this subterranean pit, it really did not look good.

Crustworth crouched down above him, sneering, his weapon cradled companionably on one arm. "Well, well, Basil of Baker Street. Nice of you to drop by. And such good timing, too. You _are_ punctual when it comes to traps, aren't you?" Basil said nothing, sick to the stomach as it was. "By the way, don't worry overmuch about your doctor friend. 'Ms Pertwee' will be keeping him _very _busy." He leered. "She's a good girl, Sophia. Come up in the world quite a bit since she threw in with us. Society lady is quite a step up from dockside whore, isn't it? But her acting skills have only improved."

He laughed. Despairing, Basil dipped his head. Crustworth raised the pistol again, the muzzle nestling cosily against Basil's head.

The click as the mouse cocked the weapon was swallowed by the hollow echo of clapping hands. Basil tensed in shock as the familiar velvet tones reached them, bringing his criminal executioner's head up.

"Excellent, excellent." Ratigan stepped smoothly through the now open cell door, patting his white-gloved hands together in a mockery of applause. "Not bad, young Crustworth, not bad at all. You're getting the hang of this, aren't you?"

The younger criminal lunged to his feet, pistol snapping out to cover the new threat. "Who the hell are you?" he exclaimed, trembling with rage. Basil choked back a hysterical laugh. Who was it? A bloody ghost! A spirit of the underworld come back from the dead to torment him.

Ratigan gave a long-suffering sigh, while Basil chuckled dementedly. "Really, Mr Crustworth, you disappoint me. You recognise this pin-sized detective, and yet you fail to recognise someone of my stature? Tut tut. Someone hasn't been doing his homework." The villain wagged a disapproving finger at the apopletic criminal.

"Or maybe death has simply diminished you, Ratigan old chum," Basil sneered, an arkward thing to accomplish convincingly from a supine position, but he did try. Casually, Crustworth kicked him in the mouth, snapping his head back and rather effectively shutting him up. Ratigan regarded this display with something like distaste.

"Ratigan?" the murderer asked, faux-polite when anyone could see the cold calculation in his eyes. "Everyone thought you were dead, sir. Your return is ..." A damned nuisance? "...Miraculous indeed. You are ... back in business, then?" The eyes sharpened as they regarded the looming figure of the previous criminal overlord. Ratigan smiled sharply.

"Oh, you know how it is," he murmured, gesturing self-depreciatingly. "Some murder here, a little empire-destroying there, and, of course, grand theft. Life without money is rather meaningless, isn't it?" He smiled companionably as Crustworth nodded. "I'm sure we have much to talk about, Mr Crustworth. But at the moment, I'm actually here to conduct some business with you, regarding a certain pesky friend of ours ..."

Basil met Ratigan's eyes. He should have known. Of course his old nemesis would want to dispatch him personally. He almost laughed. The situation, though undoubtedly deadly, was becoming patently ridiculous, with London's new and old crimelords arguing over who got to kill him. Oh, be still his beating heart! Hah! _That_ wouldn't take long, the way things were going.

Crustworth grinned, revealing an impressive array of sharpened teeth. "What? You want to pull the trigger? Well, if you've got a pistol on you, be my guest!" He leered conspiratorily.

Ratigan spread his hands. "Oh no. I never carry firearms these days. I have underlings for that." Crustworth's grin slipped a bit as the insult hit home. The muzzle of his weapon came up a touch once more. Ratigan merely smirked. "So, if you don't mind, I'll just borrow yours." And he stepped forward.

Crustworth stood straight. "Are you mad? You think I'll give my weapon to _you_? Don't be stupid!" Ratigan came on regardless, smirking coldly. "NO! I don't have to give you anything! You're old news! It's all mine now! MINE! My gun, my prisoner, my city! You've got nothing. You _are_ nothing! _I_ get to kill him!" And he swung the gun back towards Basil, who'd been rather hoping they'd kill each other, and leave him be. Staring down the barrel of a gun held in the shaking hand of a furious psychopath of a mouse, he concluded that he had no such luck.

Crustworth lunged forward to shoot him in the eye, spitting at him as he did so. Basil ducked his head in automatic defense, and tensed for the report that would end his life. And it came. The gun sounded, sharp and angry. But no bullet tore into him. No leaden insult destroyed his fine mind.

He snapped open his eyes, to see the hapless young criminal caught up in the clawed hands of the black, looming figure that was London's once-overlord. Basil shrank back reflexively. Ratigan burned with a rage that Basil had only seen once before, in the bowels of the clock tower. Face twisted in a savage rictus, the rat tore the firearm from Crustworth's paw.

"_You would steal my victory? You would defy me, and lay claim to my city? My enemy? MY RIGHT? IDIOT!" _Ratigan roared, hoisting the younger criminal into the air, and hurling him into the wall. Basil winced at the crack of bone breaking. Dazed, suddenly lamed, Crustworth tried to rise, but Ratigan allowed him no quarter. The claws, clad in the ruins of a white glove, swept down with all the force of a demon's rage. When they rose, the glove was white no more.

Ratigan stood panting, glaring down at the corpse at his feet. The bloodlust that lived in him as strongly as his desire for power and respect painted his features with a grisly glow. He drew himself up, full of the pride of the triumphant hunter, the warrior that had made his kill. Suffused with dark joy, he kicked the body casually away. Basil shuddered. Never before had he actually witnessed his opponent in the act of killing. Never before had he seen the veneer of civilisation so completely ripped away to bare the monster within.

Ratigan recovered first, rolling his shoulders and smoothing back his hair with his clean hand. He regarded the ruined glove that clung limply to his left paw with the same distaste that had been his reaction to Crustworth's striking Basil. Peeling the rag gingerly off, he tossed it aside. It landed by Basil's head, drawing the detective's gaze to its soiled, glistening folds. His gorge rose in reaction. The events of the last few moments: the trap, the shock of injury, bloodloss, and the insult of another's death at the hands of a creature he'd thought dead, flooded his awareness as he stared at the fragment of still-white cloth, alone and fragile in the dark pool. His head swam and tipped forward to the ground.

He felt hands on him, pulling him roughly aloft, but the sensation was faint through the haze of pain and shock. He vaguely realised that putting weight on his wounded leg was going to hurt, and braced, but those ungentle hands instead clamped around him possessively. Before he faded away, he realised that Ratigan was carrying him. That was ... that was ...

Black.

Well? Sorry again about the slowness. And, Mouse Avenger? I'm sorry about not reviewing your stories yet, I've been kinda busy. (Though I know I read some, and I'm almost positive I reviewed at least one. Guess I'm more distracted than I knew.) Sorry, and thank you. R&R? Anyone? Thanking ye!


	4. Chapter 3: Ratigan

Okay. I like cliffies. Sorry. Enjoy chapter 4.

Chapter 4: Ratigan

_Slender fingers danced across the strings, drawing a soothing melody delicately forth. The shimmering harpstrings sparkled in the candlelight of the new underground lair, their elemental notes the only sounds to be heard, save for two patterns of breathing. One was calm and measured, matching its flow to the path of the hands over the instrument. The other was strained and gasping as its owner fought his way through fevered dreamings, sweating profusely as his body struggled desperately to heal the wounds done to it. Once in a while, a moan would escape, and the hands would pause in their dance, before renewing their efforts. The strange drama continued through the night, as the injured mouse continued his tormented struggles for wholeness, and his enemy played to sooth him from his nightmares, with claws that had so recently torn the life from the one who had threatened him. Ratigan's vigil never wavered, to the wonder and suspicion of his followers._

Basil swam back to the world of light and wakefullness, dragging his battered mind back to consciousness despite its frantic murmurings. He hurt. His whole body ached, save his left leg, which simply didn't seem to exist. He couldn't feel it at all, as if a void had been attached to him in its place. This was worrisome, but not so much as the nagging sense that he'd forgotten something _very_ important. He breathed deep, striving for a meditative pause through which to regroup his scattered memories. He forced himself to calm, to breathe, to _think_. And, slowly, it came back to him.

He jerked upwards with a gasp as the memory of Ratigan's return, his kill, and his kidnapping of Basil returned. The sudden movement jostled his injured leg, and feeling returned to the limb with a vengance, knocking him back as the wave of agony hit. His breath hitched, stars of light burst in his eyes, and he crumpled backwards onto the bed with a cry.

"Awake at last, I see," Ratigan chuckled from the side. Basil was too caught in the struggle to breathe to reply. A moment later, hands clasped his shoulders, pulling him upright, and smoothed his back until his airways cleared and he was no longer in imminent danger of expiring from asphyxiation. He coughed weakly, feeling his lungs sing in protest. Blinking rapidly, he turned his head and looked flush into Ratigan's eyes, fear and confusion evident.

"You're ... You're ..." He couldn't finish the sentance, which was ridiculous. He sounded imbecilic, unable even to frame a coherent thought. But he was undone by this sudden resurrection of his old rival, undone by the realisation that he had actually _missed_ the foul creature when he'd been gone, a sentiment he'd clouded with the examination of this new crime. Now that Ratigan was miraculously here again, the unheeded feeling struck vengefully home. He'd needed Ratigan, needed the other's wit and cunning, needed the intellectual and moral stimulation of pitting himself against this fierce adversary. He'd _missed_ Ratigan.

"Alive? Good of you to notice, Basil old chum," the criminal sneered. "Back from the grave to which you so nearly sent me. What luck, eh? I survived, and thanks to me, now so have you. Welcome back to the land of the living, Basil. Welcome to my humble abode." He gestured expansively, and for the first time Basil took in his surroundings. He lay on a luxurious bed, in a richly appointed room, decorated with Ratigan's usual pretentious style. In one corner, a glittering stock of riches was stowed, showing how quickly the criminal had moved to recoup his losses. In another, a golden harp stood, silvery strings vibrating softly in a draught. The sight of the instrument awoke some fractured rememberings, of gentle music that eased his tormented dreams, but that was ridiculous. There was no way _Ratigan_ would have been so considerate. It was simply a feverdream.

"Nice lodgings, old chum," he murmured. "Looks like your old lair, only smaller."

Ratigan shifted beside him, a leer on his face. "Of course, Basil. Why mess with a good thing? But what you see isn't always what you get. My new 'lair', as you charmingly put it, is quite a bit bigger than the old. What you're seeing is merely my private chamber. I've moved on to bigger and better things. Torn loose in the chaos left in my wake, the riches of a whole underworld practically fell into my hands, once that measley little nuisance, Crustworth, was taken care of. He was the only one with the audacity to cling to a claim on my city. He even dared to take _you_, my nemesis, for himself. I'm afraid I couldn't allow that. He really had to die."

Basil stared in consternation, digesting these new facts, and their implications. "I'm ... flattered. That you hold me in such esteem as to kill a mouse for daring to deny you the chance to kill me. May I ask what possessed you to keep me in your private chambers? Awfully generous of you, I'm sure."

Ratigan laughed. "Oh, awfully indeed. I haven't slept a wink since you arrived. As to why I keep you here ..." He sobered, glaring at Basil in such an intense, almost possessive, manner that chills shot through the detective. "You will not die from wounds _he_ gave you. You are _mine_, mine to kill, and when I beat you it will be a fair match. I won't tolerate to win because you are weakened by that upstart's attack. So you will heal, here, where I can keep an eye on you, and when you are fit we will see which of us is greatest. Anything less is unworthy."

"Unworthy ..." Basil whispered. "Unworthy of what?"

"Unworthy of my time and effort," Ratigan clarified. "We have been years in this battle of ours, and every time one of us looks like winning, the fates throw a spanner in the works, and the battle continues. It would be an ill ending to such a fine conflict for you to allow yourself to be killed by some homocidal petty criminal. It lessens both of us. So you _will_ heal, and we _will_ continue this until its proper ending. Understood?" Basil nodded, not daring to object for the fierce light in the other's eyes.

A loud knock on the door shattered the stillness of the moment. Ratigan swung himself up and strode angrily to the door, jerking it open so that the lizard on the other side almost fell headfirst into the room. "Yes?" Ratigan purred maliciously. "This had better be good, Matthew." The lizard gulped and scrambled into some semblance of a salute.

"Sir! Um... The lads were just ... Well, we was wonderin' when we get to spit the detective, sir? Only it seems a bit ... weird ... that we're sorta ... helpin' 'im, y'see? When do we get to kill 'im? Sir ..." He tapered off, backing away as Ratigan growled low in his throat. "Sir?" The criminal overlord advanced slowly and threateningly. "Sir?" Matthew squeaked. Ratigan swept the unfortunate spokeslizard up by his collar, carrying him out beyond the door, and out of Basil's view. But not out of earshot.

"So," he purred. "You would question my judgement? My command?" A pause, in which Basil quessed several thugs were desperately shaking their heads. "Well, let me make things clear for you, my friends," Ratigan continued. There was a thud. He'd thrown Matthew. "_You_ will be doing nothing to the detective. He is _mine_ to deal with, however I see fit. You will not question me. You will not touch what's mine. Or you will have succeeded in _upsetting_ me. And you know what happens when someone upsets me, don't you?" Silence. They'd be nodding frantically. "Good."

Ratigan strode back into the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. Basil shrank back against the bed, suddenly afraid. Who knew what the unstable criminal would do in this temper? And Basil was injured already, and pretty much helpless with someone who bore him a serious grudge. Ratigan looked at him for a long moment, an unidentifiable expression on his face, then strode towards the bed. Basil swallowed. What now?

So? How'd that chappie go? R&R? Just so's I know how I'm doin'. Thanks, y'all!


	5. Chapter 4: Basil

Okay. Guess the last chapter wasn't so popular. Oh well. Here's chapter 4. Enjoy.

Chapter 4: Basil

Basil shrank back against the headboard desperately as Ratigan advanced. Defiance was one thing, but when you're caught unarmed, with a bullet hole in your leg and a sworn enemy advancing on you as you lie in his bed, no less, there are other priorities. Like bowel-loosening terror, and fury that you got yourself into this damned position in the first place. Both emotions were currently at war inside Basil and, strangely, it was the anger that came out on top. He sat up in sudden pique.

"How the hell did you bring me here, Ratigan?" he spat. The other paused. "What were you doing down there in the first place? _And where's Dawson_?" It had been nagging at him, and as soon as the words left his mouth, a wave of worry hit. Where _was_ Dawson? Had Ratigan bothered to remove him from Crustworth's lair too, or was he still down there, in who knew what condition? Was he being entertained by angry followers of the homocidal mouse? Or Ratigan's followers? Or was he ... No! He refused to think that! He refused!

"My," Ratigan murmured, distracting him from his worries momentarily. "You really do care for the tubby doctor, don't you? You actually care for him. I had thought you merely found him useful. You're not ... comfortable ... with other people. But you do care. And rather a lot, too. How very interesting."

Basil panted in fury. "Where is he?" he ground out. Ratigan looked coy.

"Now, Basil, why ever should _I_ know the whereabouts of _your_ missing companion? I'm sure I have much better things to do than keep track of wayward doctors. Why would you think otherwise?"

Furious, as only Ratigan could make him, Basil swung himself out of the bed in a foolhardy attempt to attack the bastard. His leg, unsuprisingly, crumpled under him, to the tune of a wave of agony, but he barely noticed. Crumpled in a heap at Ratigan's feet, the detective glared up at the stunned villain, and snarled.

"_Where is he_?"

Ratigan crouched down beside him, cocking his head to examine him with a curious and attentive gaze. He seemed amused, whether by Basil's foolishness, or his pain, or his desperate questions, the detective couldn't be sure. He only knew three things for sure. One: he _hurt_! Two: he really needed to know where Dawson was. Three: there was no-one in the world he hated more at this minute than the rat leaning over him with that smug expression.

"_Where_?" he whispered.

Ratigan didn't answer. Instead, he caught Basil under the shoulders and behind the knees, curiously careful of the injured leg, and lifted him smoothly off the floor. He moved a step closer to the bed, as if to place Basil back in it, and then simply stood there, holding him. Basil stared up in angered surprise, and his breath caught. That look ... Ratigan stared down at him, and there was something ... A desire, a longing, something possessive and evaluating, something that set shivers rippling down Basil's spine. Shivers that for some reason were only partially of fear. _Hell in a handcart._

"So devoted," the villain murmured. "So loyal. And so foolish. Such a prickly mix, detective. How do you reconcile all of yourself? How do you manage such internal conflicts? Ah, you fascinate me, detective. Utterly. You make me wonder. Not least what you expected to accomplish by lunging up onto an injured leg to challenge me." He laughed suddenly, and bent swiftly to deposit his baffled burden onto the bed. "So very foolish, detective. And so very brave. Exactly like you."

He straightened up again, looming over Basil, laughing silently. "Exactly like you indeed. Ah, me. Allow me to set your mind at ease. Your friend is safe, and uninjured save for a nasty bump on the head. Crustworth's work, not mine. He's been escorted back to the world above, blindfolded of course, and should be well home by now. He was remarkably reluctant to leave. Your loyalty would seem to be repaid in kind. The good doctor did not trust your safety in my hands. Can't think why."

Basil stared. "You ... _You let him go?_" he asked incredulously. "You let ... _Why?_ Why would you do that? You ... you're lying! Where is he?"

Ratigan laughed out loud. "So untrusting! I'm telling you the truth, detective. Why be surprised? It was you I wanted, not him. Why would I bother keeping him, feeding him, dealing with his undoubted escape attempts? He is loyal to you. He would have tried to 'rescue' you, without doubt. Why give myself such a headache?"

"But ... that doesn't make sense!" Basil exclaimed. "You expect me to believe you released him, rather than just killing him?"

"Yes," Ratigan replied simply. "I expect you to believe it, because it's true. You are quite enamoured with the truth, are you not? Detective? I have no reason to kill Tubby. Every move he ever made against me was at your behest, or for your sake. He is not so much my enemy as he is your ally. I have neither the time nor the inclination to kill such a minor threat. Clear?"

Basil swallowed. It _looked_ like the other was telling the truth, and quite frankly he would cling to any hope that Dawson was alive and well. The thought of the stolid doctor being dead was too much. Dawson was the epitome of unrelenting courage and perseverance, and he was Basil's closest ... _only_ ... friend. He _had_ to be alive. So as long as he could cling to that thought, he'd take anything Ratigan could throw at him. He'd believe him, if it kept that hope alive.

"Yes," he rasped. "He'd better be as safe as you say, but I think ... I think you didn't kill him. I think ... I believe you."

"Thank you," the villain smirked. "I'm so grateful that you overcame your inherent distrust of me to believe this one thing." The tone was sarcastic, but again there was something there ... As if he really _was_ grateful. Basil squeezed his eyes shut. So many things were strange here. So many things had happened that he'd never imagined could happen. And there was that strangeness about the other, that sense that he wanted something more than just revenge. But for all his genius, Basil couldn't think what. Emotion was never his strong point, and whatever drove Ratigan had a basis in that shady, unsteady realm.

He felt himself slipping, back into unconsciousness. Ratigan noticed, and Basil sensed his retreat. He felt the presence by his side back away. For some reason, he felt bereft, but he put that aside, and steadied his mind to let it flow back into sleep.

He was fading fast, when he heard it. It was clear as crystal this time, with no fever or fractured dreamings to disguise it. The liquid sound of a harp, played by exquisitely skillful hands. Music, soothing and beautiful, drawn into being by his enemy's hands. _Why?_ The confusion rocked his already unsteady mind, and he dropped suddenly away into dreams. This was so strange, and nothing was sure.

Or almost nothing. The one thing Basil could cling to, that wouldn't change, was that Ratigan had been wrong about Dawson. His friend was no 'minor threat'. If the doctor was indeed free, then there was hope. Dawson _would_ come. And Basil would be waiting for him. He just had to survive that long.

Well? Maybe someone could review this one? I'd like to know if I'm doing okay. But only if it's no trouble. Thank you!


	6. Chapter 5: Revelations

I haven't updated in absolutely _ages_, and I'm sorry for it. But here we go. Chapter 5, and have fun. By the by, I still don't own anything.

Chapter 5: Revelations

Basil woke again. This time, events came to him faster, and he didn't flail around in panicked reaction to half-remembered happenings. This time, he was calm. He turned his head gently to look out into the room. It was dark, lamplit, but that meant nothing underground. There was no day here, only night. Only an endless night through which Ratigan moved like Beelzebub through Hell, with a kind of patriarchal caring, and an utter ruthlessness. Basil caught himself at the thought, shaking it away and blaming his pain for it. And there was pain, a dull, endless ache in his leg and head.

A stir of movement caught his eye, and he followed it to the harp corner. There was a black shape blocking his view of the harp's base, something wrapped around it like a shadow. Something moving. Then the shadow lifted its head into the lamplight, and Basil stared at it in utter shock.

Noticing the wakeful Basil, Ratigan stood, carefully so as not to upset the delicate instrument, and stretched slowly, spine arching back and clawed paws reaching for the ceiling. He shook himself, for all the world like Toby would, and padded over to the bed where Basil lay, still staring numbly at him.

"Good morning, detective," the rat greeted him, obscenely cheerful for someone who'd apparently just spent the night on the floor wrapped around a metal object. Basil tried to reply, but just couldn't, the image of Ratigan curled up like a child on the floor still seared into his brain. The implications ... Why wasn't _Basil_ the one on the floor, or, even more sensibly, in a cell somewhere? Why was he sleeping comfortably in his arch-nemesis' bed while said enemy slept coiled on a floor? It made no sense!

"Not talkative this morning?" Ratigan asked. "Or just unsure it _is_ morning, and you're not still dreaming?"

"You ..." Basil managed, gesturing helplessly at the harp. "What ... _Why_?"

Ratigan looked back, gaze lingering fondly on the instrument. He shrugged. "I like music. One of life's small wonders, and a beauty accesible even to me, down here. Do you know how little there is of beauty underground, detective?" He looked back at Basil, that same inscrutable look in his eyes as there had been last night when he'd held Basil in his arms. The detective shook his head numbly. Ratigan smiled. "Almost nothing. Nothing of true beauty lasts long down here. Things change, adapt, grow hard and ugly as the life they live. But not music. Music lives and changes, but it is always beautiful. Always free. More than anything, I want to possess what's beautiful, and make it last. Some things don't, some things get broken anyway. And some things ... just become more beautiful for being damaged." His gaze lingered on Basil's face, on his wounded leg.

Basil was lost, as he often was with emotions, so he did what he usually did in such situations, and returned to his original query. "I meant," he clarified, "why were you sleeping on the floor?" Ratigan smirked a little.

"Have you forgotten whose bed you're in?"

Since this explained nothing, Basil started to re-ask the question, but Ratigan cut across him, ignoring his obvious frustration. "Tell me, detective, do you like music? Do you appreciate its subtle, insidious beauty? Can you bring it to life, yourself?" Basil shook his head angrily at the evasion.

"I play the violin," he snapped. "But that's beside the point! Why won't you tell me ... "

"The violin. Interesting. A classical choice, of course, considered as high status as the piano, but far less cumbersome. A high level of skill involved. Yes. An interesting choice indeed. I suppose it sings mournfully for you? You always seemed the melancholy type to me, detective."

Basil looked at him, suddenly, inexplicably, very afraid. "Why does it matter to you what music I play?" he whispered, the slightest tremble of fear in his voice. "Why does it matter what type of person I am? Answer me, Ratigan!" He looked up at the dark shape that was London's most powerful, most monstrous, most fearsome criminal. "Why does it matter to you that I am hurt? Why do you sleep on the floor so I can heal in your bed? Ratigan, tell me. Why do I matter to you? Why?" He trailed off, unable to continue, watching for a response both feared and ... desired? Ah, what a mess.

Ratigan looked down at him, face shaded, expression hidden. The huge form was still, very still, locked immobile by some inner struggle that Basil couldn't fathom. A hand reached out hesitantly for him, then stopped, quivering in midair as Ratigan restrained whatever impulse had led him to extend it. Then, without warning, Ratigan span away from him, marching out into the room. Clawed hands fisted, then tore the air as their wielder pounded them into a wall. A dull thud resounded, echoed once, twice, three times more until the force of the blows drove through the wooden planking of the wall. Only then did Ratigan cease his show of violence, lowering hands now bloody and torn from splinters. He had made no sound.

Basil didn't, _couldn't,_ understand, but something in this expression of silent pain struck him hard. Ratigan didn't move, maybe couldn't, and his figure as he stood silent and bowed, breath rasping harshly, tripped some switch with his prisoner/patient that neither understood. Basil stood, softly, carefully, gripping the bedframe to support him in lieu of his healing leg. The sound made Ratigan twitch, his head jerking involuntarily to follow the noise. Then Basil limped towards him, and Ratigan spun in surprise.

Basil didn't know how wise a move this was. He didn't know how many hobbled steps his leg would take. But he couldn't have done anything else. He moved towards his stunned captor, amazed and frightened by his own daring, and the shadowy reasons that spurred him.

He stopped a foot away, swaying. Without thinking, Ratigan reached out a hand to steady him, then saw the blood and bruised muscle of the limb. He stopped, staring at it, and the look on his face made something in Basil's chest turn over. He looked ... afraid, disgusted, sorrowful. There was frustrated longing in the way the hand was jerked back down, stuck roughly into a pocket, a strange regret in the way Ratigan dipped his head to avoid meeting Basil's eyes.

Basil limped the last foot, landing badly and almost falling. Ratigan grabbed him by the shoulders, tearing his pocket as he hurriedly pulled his hand free to support the teetering detective. Once he realised what he had done, he dropped the hands back as if they'd been burned, but Basil stopped him, catching hold of one as it passed. He brought it up between them, looking at it, studying the wounds carefully. Ratigan stilled in front of him, and there was a look in his eyes, a need, a longing, that made Basil think he might understand, might know how to help. He met the other's gaze.

"Some things are more beautiful for being damaged," he murmured, strangely pleased at the hope that sprang up in response to his words. "You won't break me, Ratigan. You haven't yet succeeded, despite your best efforts. A little blood won't make a difference." He looked back down at the hand he held. "You've done some damage, here. We should see to it." And he hobbled back to the bed, trying not to think too hard about what he was doing, leading a bemused and hopeful Ratigan.

They sat on the edge, Basil favouring his wounded leg, and bent over the hand held loosely in Basil's lap. He angled it towards the light, eyes picking out the splinters that needed removing with the same attention to detail that characterised his every study. Basil slipped a hand into his pocket unthinkingly, not pausing to be surprised that he still wore his own clothes and had his own equipment. He retrieved a pair of tweezers and set to work, handling his tool with care so as not to hurt Ratigan further. He closed off his mind to everything but the task at hand, refusing to think about what he was doing, who he was doing it for. It didn't matter. But he couldn't help the strange warmth that seemed to grow in his chest, or the curious tenderness with which he touched the wounded hands.

Basil had lived his life in the cold realms of logic and science, utterly bemused and not a little frightened by the confusion and warmth of emotional and social relationships. Recently, he'd seen a thaw in his rigid personal dealings, first with the endearing little brat, then in the sudden warmth and strength of his first friendship. He didn't understand them, but that didn't prevent him from treasuring their fragile beauty. Now it seemed another treasure would be added, this one more strange and fragile and prickly than any other, coming as it did from an impossible quarter. But somehow that only made it more precious.

He looked up and met Ratigan's gaze. In it, he saw a mix of confusion and desperation and hope that rivalled his own. Perhaps Ratigan was not so different from him as he had believed. Perhaps that was why they had returned to each other again and again, finding challenge and stimulation only in the activities of the other. Perhaps that was why their fates seemed bound inextricably together. Because they were alike. Because they needed each other.

It was perhaps the scariest thougth that had ever occured to him, and the ramifications, the implications both for his view of Ratigan, and, more terribly, of himself, terrified him. But no more than they obviously frightened Ratigan. He would deal with it. _They _would deal with it. They had to. But damn if it didn't frighten the sugar out of him.

Well? The story has taken a turn into obvious slash territory, but I think it's worth it. By the way, the chapter title? I called it that both because things are obvioulsy revealed here, but also because it's the chapter of the Bible that contains visions of the apocalypse. I thought this would certainly be an apocalyptic development for the poor characters involved. I'm thinking next chapter we'll have a Dawson interlude, just to see how the search for our bewildered detective is going. Till then, have fun, y'all. Oh, and could you leave me a review? I like them. Thanks.


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